the practice — QiGong is made up of two Chinese words: Qi (pronounced chee), maning vital energy and Gong (pronounced gung) meaning accomplishment through steady practice. Whether for martial, medical or spiritual purposes, all styles have three things in common: posture (moving or stationary), breathing techniques and mental focus. The gentle rhythmic movements are designed to reestablish a body/mind/soul connection.
the experience — Being born to a Caucasian mother and a Chinese father was an unusual heritage in the predominately Anglo-California suburb where I was raised. So journeying to Beijing after my sophomore year of college for a language and cultural exchange was like exploring a side of myself that had not yet been unearthed.
During this foundational life experience, I moved downward, excavating through my ancestry. Simultaneously I moved forward to illuminate what and who I was to become.
In hindsight, it’s fitting that my destiny to tread on the yogic/spiritual path (I’m now a registered yoga teacher) was first evidenced during that summer in China where I found QiGong.
As part of the cultural exchange, our group at Tsinghau University was required to attend lectures and demonstrations on various cultural traditions. Though I didn’t resonate with jing ju, the high-pitched Chinese opera, QiGong was definitely up my alley.
The practice is an ancient one, linked to Traditional Chinese Medicine, and it stimulates “Qi,” energy or life-force. It does so through a combination of meditation, slow and flowing body movements and breath work.
During those hot and oppressively humid months at Tsinghua, the sounds of cicadas filled the muggy air and the lush plants that framed the latticework of campus streets seemed to grow overnight. It was a mystical kind of existence for someone who had neither been to Asia nor lived with intense humidity.
The QiGong “lecture,” an introduction, really, was held in the pagoda across from our dorm after our language classes one afternoon. While many of my classmates blanched at the rhythmic movements and the melodic and slightly new age music that crackled out of a beat-up portable stereo toted around by the teacher, I was enchanted, and so were two of my good friends.
The three of us signed on to study regularly, much to the delight of the spry older woman who had led us through the first session.
As with many spiritual practices commitment (at least for the duration of our stay in China) meant rising at dawn to go through the routine, which wasn’t always easy. There was a huge city to explore and late nights out to be had. Not to mention hundreds of Chinese characters that we were supposed to be memorizing.
However, the fear of disappointing Teacher was great enough that we stumbled out, bleary-eyed, into the foggy morning air, greeted by the glowing orange ball of a sun and found our places in the park as the scratchy music and the soft silky routine flowed in harmony.
Teacher asked us to imagine light flowing up our spine and out the top of our head; we pounded gently on our kidneys, rubbed our ears and swayed like trees in the wind. As the sun rose higher, we’d drop into that meditative, blissed-out state known to those who regularly engage in modalities that incorporate body, mind and spirit. I had met a part of me that I didn’t know existed.
When we prepared to return to California, Teacher gave us tapes to practice to morning and night. Sadly, mine eventually disappeared, along with my practice, as post-college life took over. However, the foundation for my spiritual life had been laid by QiGong, the practice of my ancestors.
Master Tang Wei-Zhong teaches five animal forms for generalhealing. He teaches at 2085 East Foothill Blvd., Pasadena, CA. 91107. Reach him through Dan Hoffman at taiwandan@yahoo.com or (818) 726 - 4888.
Amy Wong is a writer and yoga teacher living in Vancouver, B.C. www.pingyoga.com.
Ping has several meanings in Chinese, two of Amy’s favorites are balance and peace.
Photos by Adam Latham, angeladam.com
